Thanksgiving Sunday 
The Christian Year
by Blessed John Keble 
And Jesus answering said, Were there not ten cleansed? but  
where are the nine?  There are not found that returned to give  
glory to God, save this stranger.  ST. LUKE xvii. 17,18. 
Ten cleans'd, and only one remain! 
Who would have thought our nature's stain 
Was dyed so foul, so deep in grain? 
       Even He who reads the heart,-- 
Knows what He gave and what we lost, 
Sin's forfeit, and redemption's cost,-- 
By a short pang of wonder cross'd 
       Seems at the sight to start: 

Yet 'twas not wonder, but His love 
Our wavering spirits would reprove, 
That heaven-ward seem so free to move 
       When earth can yeild no more: 
Then from afar on God we cry; 
But should the mist of woe roll by, 
Not showers across an April sky 
       Drift, when the storm is o'er. 

Faster than those false drops and few 
Fleet from the heart, a worthless dew. 
What sadder scene can angels view 
       Than self-deceiving tears, 
Pour'd idly over some dark page 
Of earlier life, though pride or rage 
The record of to-day engage, 
       A woe for future years? 

Spirits, that round the sick man's bed 
Watch'd, noting down each prayer he made, 
Were your unerring roll display'd 
       His pride of health to' abase; 
Or, when soft showers in season fall 
Answering a famish'd nation's call, 
Should unseen fingers on the wall 
       Our vows forgotten trace; 

How should we gaze in trance of fear! 
Yet shines the light as thrilling clear 
From Heaven upon that scroll severe, 
       "Ten cleans'd and one remain!" 
Nor surer would the blessing prove 
Of humbled hearts, that own Thy love, 
Should choral welcome from above 
       Visit our senses plain; 

Than by Thy placid voice and brow, 
With healing first, with comfort now, 
Turn'd upon him, who hastes to bow 
       Before Thee, heart and knee; 
"Oh! thou, who only wouldst be blest, 
"On thee alone My blessing rest! 
"Rise, go thy way in peace, possess'd 
       "For evermore of Me." 

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